


by the time you wake

by oziads



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Dreams, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:34:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22675675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oziads/pseuds/oziads
Summary: Shortly after his resignation, Ephrim comes down with a fever.--ephrondir hurt/comfort, baby. that's it.
Relationships: Ephrim/Throndir (Friends at the Table)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 28
Collections: Secret Samol 2019





	by the time you wake

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Suedeuxnim](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Suedeuxnim/gifts).



> happy belated secret samol, danny! i heard you like ephrondir and sickfics!! i am so, so very sorry for how long this took me to get to you, and not even in a complete state!! writing is, unfortunately, hard, and life knocked me a little on my ass the past few weeks. but! part two will be out hopefully in the next couple of days. enjoy!

It hurts to breathe in Samothes’s forge. The air is stifling, thick with fire and power that singes mortal lungs. Ephrim inhales. 

He’s clutching the hammer, blood-slick and blistering, in his bad hand. Every time he brings it down onto the anvil it sends a juddering pain up his arm and to the base of his skull. Still, he raises it again, drops it again; there is work to be done. Always, always work to be done. If Ephrim does not do it, no one will. No one will, and something terrible will happen. It can only be him. _Whoosh. Clink._

“Ephrim,” a voice says, and Ephrim knows it to be his god, bleeding beneath him. He does not look down. “Ephrim.” Does not look down, even as he feels blood pool hot and sticky around his feet. Even as he hears a horrible, rattling breath—

“Ephrim. _Ephrim,_ can you hear me?” 

A voice cries out, and it occurs to Ephrim that it’s his own; the disconnect is frightening. He struggles and wrenches himself from the forge, into the half-light of his bedroom. He is still burning, ears ringing with anvil-strikes, and there is a hand on his shoulder, then his back. Ephrim thrashes, thinking, for a wild moment of broad, bloody hands, worn by metalwork—

“Ephrim, hey! It’s okay, you’re okay.” 

The touch is cool; it does not grasp, as Samothes was always grasping. Cool and gentle, like—

“Shh, it’s just me. It’s Throndir.” Throndir. Of course it’s Throndir. Ephrim wants to roll over so he can see him, reassure him, he always worries—but everything hurts and his head is so heavy and it _pounds_ when he tries to move. It’s much easier to let his eyes fall shut and just...

“—for a sec and try to get some tea down?” Ephrim blinks. His eyelids burn against his eyes. Throndir is shifting around at his bedside. “It’s probably cool by now, but it should still do the trick.” There’s the sound of ceramic against wood and Ephrim grimaces; everything seems louder than it should be. “Ephrim…?” 

Ephrim only manages a raspy sort of “Hnnh,” in response, but with some effort he shifts onto his back and squints up at Throndir in time to see the soft, relieved smile that spreads across his face. 

“Hey.” 

Ephrim clears his aching throat. It becomes a dry, wracking cough that seizes his body and makes his ribs ache, wringing air from his lungs. “F-fuck,” he croaks once it abates, shivering and falling back onto his pillows. “Hey yourself.” 

Throndir cradles the back of Ephrim’s head and lifts a mug to his dry lips. “Alright, here you go,” he murmurs, and Ephrim makes an effort to take a sip. A fair bit of it ends up spilling down his chin. Dimly, Ephrim thinks that he should be embarrassed, but it’s Throndir. It’s only Throndir. 

The brew is bitter, medicinal, and Ephrim’s face screws up as he swallows what made it into his mouth. “One more,” Throndir says, and Ephrim lets him tip a little more down his throat. It’s lukewarm, and as such doesn’t do much to soothe his throat, but it’s good to have something on his parched tongue. 

“There you go.” Throndir eases him back down onto his pillow and Ephrim huddles back beneath the blankets with a shudder. He watches Throndir with half-lidded eyes as he sets the mug aside then turns back to him with a cloth in his hand. He pauses. “You need me to get you anything else?” 

Throndir’s eyes are warm and concerned, his brow pinched. The room is dim, but the light that escapes from the drawn curtains softly illuminates a few of his flyaway curls. It must be sunset, Ephrim thinks, or _a_ sunset. If his body weren’t so leaden, he might reach up and tuck one of those curls behind Throndir’s ear. 

“Ephrim?” 

“Mm. Here.” 

“You should go back to sleep.” Throndir presses the cloth to Ephrim’s forehead. It’s damp and cool against his blistering skin. Ephrim sighs in relief. “I’ll be here.” He moves the cloth down to Ephrim’s temple, then his cheek. Humming, Ephrim tilts his head so Throndir can get to the other side of his face. At some point his eyes fall closed again. 

-

Shouting and thundering hooves. The Tour is on the move again, and Ephrim cannot stay on his horse. Feverish and dizzy, he clutches at the person sitting in front of him on the saddle, desperately trying to stay upright. “I can’t—” he says, “Please—”

There’s a terrible clap of thunder, and Ephrim pitches sideways. For a long moment he’s staring at the dark sky; unnatural heat lighting pulses behind low-hanging clouds, and a terrible, blood-red sun stares down at him. Then he’s falling, falling to be trampled beneath a thousand thousand hooves, and he reaches for his riding partner but his arm is gone. They turn to watch him fall, and it’s a familiar face, but before he can recognize it—

“Ephrim. Hey.” A whisper. “Think you can get some more tea down?” 

Ephrim lifts his head and his vision swims. Lets it fall back down. “Why?” he croaks. His breath feels hot on his own lips. His heart is racing in his chest.

“It’ll help you feel better.” Ephrim makes a noise that seems to be taken as assent, because Throndir is gently coaxing tea down his throat. He sputters weakly, and begins to cough again. 

“Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry,” Throndir whispers, rubbing circles into his back as his lungs seem to seize in his chest. Ephrim takes a gasping breath after a long moment where he couldn’t breathe at all, then slumps back down into bed. 

“S’okay,” Ephrim mumbles belatedly, shivering as he turns onto his side. He shifts, searching for a position that suits his aching limbs. A chill wracks his body, and this time he flinches away from Throndir’s cool compress; the rag feels painfully rough against his skin. Throndir is saying something softly, but Ephrim’s ears are ringing again and he can’t keep his eyes open.

\- 

His arm hurts. Pounds. It throbs through his shoulder, up his spine, filling his skull. Unrelenting and ravenous. 

He imagines dark, burning threads continuing their approach from the base of his neck to his throat, to his face. Searing through his skin, eating away his flesh, setting fire to his nerves. It was never like this, before. It consumed him, yes, but never with this sort of malicious, pain-drinking fervor. 

It does, now. It hurts. It _hurts._ He sees himself, burning blackly, thrashing. Consumed by—

“—phrim, please.” 

Ephrim takes a deep, shuddering breath. He can feel his heartbeat pulsing behind his eyes. “Sorry,” he hears himself rasp nonsensically, blinking black spots from his vision. “What…” 

“Shit, Ephrim, you’re burning up. Here, c’mon, you’re too bundled up…” 

Ephrim shudders as Throndir tugs the heavy quilt from where it’s twisted around his body. He can feel the heat beating from his skin, and still he shivers beneath his sheets. He must make some noise of protest, because Throndir says, “I know, I’m sorry, just—just let me at least get a lighter blanket, okay?” There’s some shuffling around, and then: “No, Kodiak, leave him alone, bud—” 

Something cold and wet presses against the back of Ephrim’s neck. It snuffles quietly. Ephrim startles then laughs, weakly reaching behind himself until he finds fur. He pats it softly. “Kodiak... keep me warm,” he mumbles. There’s a sound as if Throndir wants to say something, then a quiet chuckle as the mattress dips beneath Kodiak’s considerable weight. After a few perfunctory circles he settles beside Ephrim with a quiet huff, pushing his snout gently against Ephrim’s good hand until he gives his fluffy head a few scratches. 

“He’s worried about you too,” Throndir says softly, and for a moment there’s a gentle hand on his shoulder. Before Ephrim can muster a response he adds, “I’m gonna brew some more tea. Get your temperature down. Alright?” 

“Mm.” 

He closes the door quietly behind himself and Ephrim huddles against Kodiak. His arm still hurts. His body still hurts. The tight worry in Throndir’s voice—hurts. How long has he been here, nursing him? It couldn’t be more than a day, right? He struggles to sift through the fog in his brain and finds it easier to just drift, jerking briefly awake one or two times when a muscle twitches of its own volition. Ten minutes or an hour later, Throndir returns with the sharp smell of the medicinal tea. 

“Ephrim?” he whispers. 

“Mm. ‘M awake.” He clears his throat; it’s still sore and scratchy, but this time he doesn’t dissolve into a coughing fit. 

“Can you turn over?” It takes some effort, but Ephrim manages to cajole his aching body onto its back. There’s just enough light to make out the shape of Throndir crouching at his bedside. “Here, if you can sit up just a little…” Throndir slips an arm beneath Ephrim’s shoulders and helps him up. His head spins and he sags against Throndir for a moment, but manages to get a few sips of tea down without incident. It’s warm and soothing on his throat, and he’s grateful despite the foul taste. 

“Throndir…” he murmurs as he huddles back down against Kodiak, who has begun to snore. 

“Yeah?” He’s laying a damp washcloth against his forehead. Ephrim reaches out blindly for his other hand. Finds it, pleasantly cool and rough with calluses. It would feel so nice against his burning cheeks, he thinks. He runs his fingers over his knuckles. 

“You okay? Ephrim?” 

Ephrim opens his eyes, teary from the heat of his eyelids. This close, he can see the shape of Throndir’s frown. He wishes he wouldn’t frown.

“Mm-hm.” Ephrim tugs a little at Throndir’s hand, and he lets him guide it to his cheek. He was right, it _is_ nice. Better than the cool compress, simply by virtue of being Throndir. “Just wanted to say… thanks. Glad you’re here. Thanks.” He thinks he may be a little delirious. That’s okay. Throndir is here. 

“Yeah, of course,” Throndir is saying. So soft. He moves his hand from Ephrim’s cheek to his damp hairline, gently smoothing it. Ephrim takes a shaky breath and leans into his touch, seeking out comfort and cool relief. He’s beginning to drift off, then is struck with a thought: it’s late, probably. Is Throndir staying overnight? For him? 

“Where… where’re you… sleep?” he slurs. His tongue is terribly heavy. 

“What’s that?” Throndir is combing his fingers through Ephrim’s hair now and it’s very distracting—that is to say, it’s very nice and it’s making him very sleepy.

“Where… ugh... fine.” _You win,_ he thinks, and he smiles a little as he allows himself to fall swiftly asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> next time: soup! bathing! hair care! and more of our favorite hurt/comfort tropes!!


End file.
